


Five minutes

by Eulalia_writer



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Feels, Dead Sherlock, Depressed John, Feels, Friendship/Love, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John Watson is Broken, John-centric, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Poor John, Post-Reichenbach, References to Depression, Tears, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 23:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8598775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eulalia_writer/pseuds/Eulalia_writer
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John still lives in the same apartment he'd been sharing with Sherlock, even if he's not there anymore.Well, not phisycally.The thing was, his presence was still lingering all over the apartment: he was in the chaos in the living room, he was in the hundreds of scientific tools in the kitchen.What was worse, he was in John's heart and head, and he was probably going to be there forever.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry. I didn't mean to write this, but German literature was boring today and that's what happened.

Now even a simple thing like waking up in the morning had become distressing.

His muscles tensing under his clothes, disappointed and aching for the tremendous effort that was required of them.

Walking down the stairs was a torture, as if his legs were always trying to keep him away from what now was his apartment.

_His empty apartment._

As if, staying in his room, upstairs, could avoid crashing into that sense of tearing emptiness that constantly tormented him. 

Every days were equally dramatic: cold and smooth wood steps under his feet that seemed to throw heart-rending cries at every step, the landing, the closed door, with that frozen metal handle that was slightly pending down because of the thousand hands that had abused her for years.

_Five minutes._

_Five minutes every morning, was he late or early, with 3 ° or 30 ° degrees._

_Five minutes were the time that it took him, every morning, to grab the handle, lower it and enter._

An endless struggle with the voice screaming in his head, screaming to get away, to go upstairs and hide under the covers.

And cry.

He wanted to cry, but he couldn't even do that anymore.

John Watson had been through many traumatic events through his life, and yet the overwhelming emptiness that hung in the apartment he once shared with his best friend was impossible to ignore.

The rooms had been left exactly as they were when the detective still lived there.

The bedroom then, had been double-locked when the doctor himself had "sealed" it; in a fit of madness he had even taken the key away and had slipped it on with its old platelets in the chain which he always wore around his neck.

But otherwise John had touched nothing at all.

He had not even thought to tidy up the living room, or the kitchen.

_That disorder was Sherlock._

By cleaning it up he would have wiped out all traces of his friend's existence, and he had absolutely need of tangible traces of his life, even though it was over, now.

The kitchen was still swamped by his ex roommate's scientific instruments: Mrs. Hudson had unsuccessfully tried to put them in a box and hide it in the detective's bedroom, but John had been steadfast. He had shouted and screamed, with tears in his eyes, heavy chest and pounding heart. 

He had stomped his feet, made fists. 

She had hugged him, letting him unload it on her, then she had made some tea and she had vanished, leaving him sobbing and curled up in Sherlock's armchair.

However, in a doctor's careless moment, she had managed to relegate the precious microscope in a corner of the table, so that he had enough room to set the table.

John, however, did not eat.

At least not as much as he should have, and the only times he did it, he would sit in his chair, with the take-away food in the balance on his thighs and a bottle of wine next to him, from which he was getting used to drink without the glass.

Sadly, those times he deliberately took his whack and exaggerated with the alcohol were definitely becoming too frequent. 

Depression was rapidly seizing him.

It did not worry him at all. 

He didn't want to prevented it from doing so.

John Watson had been through many traumatic events through his life.

_Sherlock Holmes's death was not something that he could have come to grips with._


End file.
